Normally a Saturday ritual, it seemed
we should mark this day with pancakes too,
a breakfast-table recollection
of how feasting and fasting so often cohere.
Even, I thought as I mixed egg and milk
the night before, even mark the way
that air fills the batter like
pockets of life, as these very
ordinary, meager elements of that life -
egg, milk, flour - are mingled
and Spartan fare turns to luxury.
Yet how to explain to those for whom
life's a constant grazing table that
sometimes, though luxury's just
a whisking bowl away from our grasp,
it might be meet to go without,
to join the cousin in the wilderness
with camel's hair and the desert's lean pantry,
to turn our hearts to the sight of Life.
And how to explain to my own heart,
so accustomed to gorging and hairshirts alike,
that all is gift, when the breakfast ends and
the drive to work begins,
when Adam's curse taints feast, and fast
is sometimes only a puff of air?
How to tell the shriven soul
to take the fast and the feast in turn,
to sit at table and taste this grace
as death is at work, yet life is too,
as life is at work in you.
All day the hazardous haze,
yesterday too. I feared to take
the children outside; even the garden
was clothed in the smoke of elsewhere on fire.
we saw the world,
a greenbluebrown orb of God’s grace
heaving with the death of it
and caught the surge
through smoke-drunk eucalypts
of a day that will come yet bids us fight
for the day when we’re no longer burning.